#day1460

trigger warning

pages 272-280

imagine, for a few minutes, that you’re me. maybe not the best thing to imagine. do it anyway, humor me a bit. 

you’ve been a girl on the internet since you were 10 years old, due to loneliness and boredom since you live in ohio. you have few friends and feel some deep rooted desire to be special to someone. it’s genetic. since that age, you’ve been both restricting how much food you eat and a thing for adult men to enjoy sexually. that second thing started when you were 6, actually, but that’s a small detail. unimportant for now.

so, you’ve been an object from the day you gained consciousness. you eventually go into middle school and you’re ugly, the ugliest bitch to walk the earth. you have crooked teeth, glasses, and stupid red hair. not to mention too many freckles. boys ask you out as a joke or as a dare, or straight up call you ugly to your face. you play minecraft a lot and listen to pierce the veil or sleeping with sirens or bring me the horizon. you play clarinet. you have some friends, and men online still like to call you a cumslut and tell you that you have “fuck me” eyes. so maybe it's not all bad. at least you're attractive to someone. even if they are in their 30’s.

high school starts and you don’t gain any weight during puberty. you grow taller but you stay 93 pounds. you grow out your bangs and stop begging your mother to let you dye your hair. the red hair is okay, you decide. not pretty, but okay. you love marching band (specifically bass clarinet now) and horseback riding, and start dating some men and women in band but they’re all terrible to you. one in particular plays tenor drums and begs you to send nudes to him every other night on snapchat. you say yes to keep him happy, and for a time, this strategy works. he’s funny in a self deprecating way, but the deprecation gets old really fast. he's your first kiss but it's kind of disgusting. you’re 14 and a half. he dumps you over text months later. 

you date a girl a year later who also doesn’t like eating. you’re forced to consume calories by the eating disorder clinic you’re forced to go to. your mom sneaks ensure shakes into your food. you still aren’t gaining weight- between marching band and purging, you stay 93 pounds as you turn 16 and begin driving. you have to be hospitalized and a tube is forced in your nose. you do finally gain a bit of weight- 93 morphs into 99. the doctors at the eating disorder clinic cheer and tell you its progress; you want to carve your skin off.

said girl is triggering you, constantly. she's losing weight and encourages you both to not eat- inadvertently. you’re toxic together but you love her a lot. your band friends are sick of hearing you bitch about these things, so you two eventually break up. men resume taking advantage of you and you’re an object once again.

you do have some good memories from high school- mostly from band, mostly the trombones and your younger sister being your family and loving you when you cannot love yourself. you treasure them and miss them all the time years from now, even though they probably don't think about you much.

as you get closer to graduating high school, you date some older guys for a time. boys in your school don't look at you twice. you’re never truly happy with them; they keep hurting you over and over. physically and mentally. your mom cries because of you a lot. your grades, your mental illnesses, the boys you date. they all hurt her heart, and yours is almost nonexistent anymore.

you graduate high school and move 2,500 miles away. it feels freeing, you love it. you can starve yourself in peace but the birth control you were forced on makes you gain weight despite eating close to nothing. you love the palm trees and cacti and dutch bros coffee. your freckles get dark due to all the sun. you get an A in your criminology seminar. you lose your virginity in the back of your shitty car to a man who swears up and down he loves you, then ghosts you 2 weeks later. you start doing online sex work. if you’re gonna be objectified and exploited, might as well make money off it. you meet vincent, one of your best friends. you and him go to local bands house shows all the time, and enjoy getting coffee and playing star wars MMORPGs together. covid happens.

you move back to ohio during quarantine, spending march-august of 2020 stuck in the rural midwest. the summer approaching is still. quiet. almost dead. cicadas cry out every night and you lay out in the grass of your childhood home's backyard, hoping to sink into the dirt.

you turn 19. you start dating kyle, someone you kind of knew a few years ago but reconnected with via instagram once covid hit. he is sweet and good and has adorable cats. though you're allergic to said cats. he is tall and big and kisses you good. you two mostly drive around exploring springfield, yellow springs, dayton. or you’re napping together, which is way less fun. your ‘96 chevy malibu always smells like smoke and warm motes of dust. the sun is out often. you and your sister are best friends and hang out as frequently as possible.

something shifts. it’s subtle, hardly noticeable. but there’s an unease, like something is about to snap. your boyfriend judges you, ignores your wants, and makes off putting comments, but it’s not too bad, right?

kyle is no longer sweet and good. somehow you missed the signs, or maybe he manipulated you expertly, who knows? something shifted in him weeks after you began dating; he is now demanding and cruel. he yells at you and calls you a whore, a bitch, a dumb anorexic. he wants things from you. always wanting and taking, never giving anything in return. his bedroom stinks like kitty litter and sweat. he tells you to stop being friends with every guy you know or else he’ll “do something about it”. you’re suddenly isolated and friendless altogether, scared shitless of your own boyfriend. one of your friends is deployed in the navy. your other friends don’t hear from you for hours, days, weeks. you disappear. if you disobey and text someone- especially a man, kyle yells at and threatens you. every time you try to break up with him, he drives to your house with a bat or knife. sitting, waiting. you tell no one. you’re terrified he’ll make good on one of his threats.

one day, he does. you’re crying at his place over your weight- is 110 pounds fat? kyle starts kissing you and feeling you, he’s getting hard. you’re not reciprocating, you’re too distraught, too full of self loathing. he starts initiating sex with you; you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he pins you down. you say “no”. he forgets what “stop” means. he isn’t listening to you begging him to get off you, to get out of you. he’s twice your size, and he has crawled in and infected any goodness you have left, pinning you down and leaving gross marks. this is the first of many times this will happen.

when you try to get away next time, a few days later, he grabs one of his smaller knives and digs it into your back. you’re crying. he’s still fucking you. it hurts. you’re bleeding from your groin and your lower spine. he doesn’t care. he spits down at you, sneers, grabs your hair so hard it gets ripped out.

you’re glad you’re on birth control now. it’s the first week of july, 2020, and you live and die at kyle’s words. whatever he wants, he gets, whenever he wants it. never mind that he lives 40 minutes away in his grandparents' garage. every time you try to leave him, he drives to your house, threatens you and your sister. the police, you knew, won’t believe a word you say. so you wait and endure, despite the permanent damage he will do to you.

you’re raped at least once a week. any sexual desire you once felt was gone, bleeding out on the floor over and over again. you have bruises everywhere except your face. your parents raise their eyebrows but don’t ask questions; you’re an adult now and can handle this alone. you have 2 friends: your sister and a girl you knew from band. that’s it. kyle looks at your activity and location, always. if you’re online but ignoring his texts, he calls you. tells you he’s coming over. tells you he wants to marry you. tells you that you’re his and no one else’s. tells you that he just doesn’t trust you to be friends with anyone else. makes you cry so often that when you go to his house, you bring your makeup to touch up when your mascara and eyeliner run. 

finally, august rolls around. you have to go back to asu, go live with vincent. kyle lets you leave, but promises to book a flight every 4 weeks to make sure you're on your best behavior. you sneakily don’t tell him your apartment’s new address. the day you board the plane to go to tempe, you block kyle on everything, tell your sister to keep an eye out. he, thankfully, stops driving to your childhood home. he is out of your life.

you are finally free. 

except you’re not.

a few weeks later, the nightmares begin. violent, visceral, ultra realistic. constantly reliving the assaults. online classes are impossible to focus in when you keep having flashbacks and are very sleep deprived. you wake up screaming every other morning. you never want to date a man again. not after kyle was so sweet in the beginning, but so monstrous near the end. you blame yourself. it’s your fault. you should have fought harder, screamed louder. it wasn’t “real” rape. maybe you are just a stupid slut. maybe you asked for it, maybe you should have known better and seen the signs, maybe you like it rough, maybe you provoked him. you feel dirty and used, more than you ever did at 6 years old. you have multiple panic attacks a day. your grades slip. once you had all A’s, now you’re lucky if you manage a C. you rarely get out of bed. you’re scared of most men but feel stupid for being so scared. when you do leave your bedroom, you’re half dead, a zombie. thick bags under your eyes, classes dropped, no hobbies other than watching tv and movies. no friends minus vincent, your roommate.

you get a dog named fuji who helps you tremendously. she is obnoxious and has her problems but you love her. she gives you a reason to not kill yourself, though you desperately want to. you stay alive only for fuji and your little sister. you cut yourself again, the same way you did in high school. you’re punishing yourself for being a slut, but at least you aren't dead yet. it's 2021. the scars eventually white over and fade over time, but they have still not gone away completely.

a year goes by, then 2, then 3. it does get easier- you try therapy, but it’s expensive. time, your friends, and the dry heat has healed you the most. you tell your family about what kyle did, and they don’t know what to say. they’re not outraged or weepy the way families of rape victims are on tv shows. maybe they don’t care or understand. you slowly repair old friendships he destroyed, and you build new ones from scratch, too. it feels good to know they’re safe from him. you consider pressing charges but know you won’t be believed, not by the police, prosecution, or a jury. the defense will claim you just like rough sex and want revenge after a bad breakup by falsely accusing him. plus you're a sex worker and will never get the benefit of the doubt. "where's the evidence?" people will ask, and it makes you nauseous to think that your story isn't evidence enough. you grow your hair out, continue doing said sex work, and it makes you a good amount of money. plus, it helps your confidence, and you know you’re safe in this environment. this is sex on your own terms, and you can say “no” whenever you want and know you won’t get in trouble. it's just a job- 99% acting, but there's a release in it. it’s weirdly cathartic. people judge you all the time, you get death threats from strangers. your skin grows incredibly thick. you’re not hurting anyone and you’re making money from what is all acting and making social media posts- the death threats are laughable. nothing in your mind could be as bad as kyle.

you do try to date again, a year and a half after you escaped kyle. to no avail. men still don’t want you. girls don’t notice you. this is a fact that never seems to change, even today. men lead you on but they always eventually leave, or they show their true colors and you need to leave them. many judge you for being raped or for doing sex work, or both. you make your peace with this. someday, you hope, you won’t be alone romantically. when the time is right and you meet the right person. someone nonjudgmental, someone totally safe and reassuring, warm, someone who makes you laugh and feel pretty. someone who will respect and still love you when you say “no”. you still have hope. for now, you are content to love your friends, family, dog. you do wish someone would hold you, though. someone to hold you with no undertones of violence, no threat of them leaving you like others have.

it has been 4 years since kyle first raped you. you feel mostly okay most of the time. you eat at least one meal a day, you go for runs, you got contact lenses, tattoos you designed, and hair extensions. people from middle/high school say you’re so pretty now, most likely not as a joke the way it was when you were 12. you laugh. they didn’t notice you then, and you don’t notice them now. many from high school still live in rural ohio, most stayed right in central ohio. you listen to ethel cain and it reminds you of them and that town.

your college grades have improved a lot the past 2 years. in person classes resuming and the time to heal from kyle helped you tremendously. you make the dean’s list in the spring of 2024. you only have panic attacks once or twice a month, and you only have nightmares about kyle once a week, maybe less. it’s still achy and painful but a lot less so. the wounds are slightly more cauterized. you sometimes dissociate pretty badly during consensual sex but you’re working on it. sometimes these regular sexual encounters end up physically hurting, too, leaving you painfully sore and tender between your legs. leftover damage that hasn’t healed completely from how violently kyle assaulted you. but you take some tylenol and deal with it. you write about your life and it is better than therapy; getting it all out of your system is a giant wave of helpless relief. you have a good group of friends (you think), and you’re looking to rent a new apartment now. you still have your dog and your job and you graduate college in 5 weeks. you will probably start your "real" job at terros health not long after that.

you’re nosy. one day in 2024, you look up kyle’s instagram on your shitpost account. he has a new girlfriend and a son now. the kid is about a year and a half old, and you pray to god he turns out nothing like his father. 

okay, you’re no longer me now. all of that is my truth, laid out and bare. you can ignore it if you want. i just need to write it down or else i’ll go fucking crazy. today marks exactly 4 years since kyle raped me for the first time. and i want anyone out there reading this to know they’re not alone. you’re so loved by me. you’re not dirty or disgusting, you’re holy and perfect and clean. i will take care of you, i will treat you gently. show me the darkest parts of your soul and i’ll show you how it still shines like precious gold. no one took care of me and it almost destroyed me; now i have to give what i was denied. just because you endured horrible things doesn’t mean you’re broken. hell, look at me. i nearly died a bunch of times and i’m still here; my heart regrew and is bigger than ever these days, no longer nonexistent. that’s something, isn’t it? i bare my teeth without meaning to. i try to be gentle. i apologize, for now my love leaves scars. as fragmented, imperfect beings, mine is a never ending quest. a quest to find my purpose knowing my end is assured. to find the strength to continue when all strength has left me. i'm stronger than you'd think. it takes a hell of a lot to find joy even when darkness descends and, amidst deepest despair, my light everlasting.

i didn’t deserve what i went through.